Kick It, You Asshole
by MakarovWho
Summary: If there was one thing Simon was good at, then it was dodging punches. It was a part of his daily schedule. Oddly enough, he wasn't disappointed when someone managed to hit him. [ World Cup AU ]
1. Chapter 1

**Before I begin this thing, I know many characters that are mentioned aren't English, but for the sake of this story let's pretend that they're all either English or have the nationality so are allowed to play for England's national team and don't mind please how OOC they are. Also, not all characters are from the MW series and let's lower the ages of like, er, almost everyone bc everyone seems to be a fit af old dude especially Merrick, my God**

 **Also, this is more to kinda test out the idea and see if anyone likes it, so reviews would seriously be appreciated! You also don't really need a detailed knowledge of soccer by the way, so have fun reading!**

* * *

On a scale from one to ten, MacTavish was at least worth a nine. That is, of course, if you ask Simon to ate him solely based on looks. Personality? A solid five. If he also has to express how big the chance is he's going to get punched by the midfielder within five minutes in percentages, Simon was going for at least ninety percent. That angry scar told him so.

Perhaps that's why Simon was enjoying this interview so much. He was already known for being an incredible asshole who can make even the most self obsessed people insecure, but despite that he was good at his job. Some kid a few years ago who was dubbed the next Iker Casillas? Simon saw all his weaknesses and people became aware of how incorrect they were. Kid begged his manager to get him a job in Kazakhstan maybe two days after the interview.

That had been a fun day.

Not to mention all the Ballon D'Or winners he has made cry or the time he made Bayern Munich look like the shittiest team on earth— which at the time, for a matter of fact, they were. All of those were fun things and he'll do it again if someone asked him to do so, but that isn't the point of this entire story. The point is that Simon Riley, no matter how correct he is, has no brain-to-mouth filter, not even when talking with England's captain.

The interview started off great, honestly; polite handshakes, a few smiles here and there and some joking around to make it less tense as both had a reputation for being intimidating people for totally different reasons. Simon even managed to make no comment about how extremely tight MacTavish's jeans were because Jesus Christ, who allowed him to go out in that? Or even buy it? Surely the team's coach has seen him, but then again Shepherd is kinda known for not caring about how his players act, dress or whatever scandal they get themselves in as long as they win.

Kinda led Simon to the next question; they've lost for almost five games in a row, why the fuck wasn't Shepherd doing anything?

The longer the interview went on, however, the less civil it became. It was slow at first, but escalated quickly after MacTavish began about their last game and Simon had to compare the entire team to headless chickens. Not exactly untrue, not really, but not quite the kindest thing to say. You can expect that with Simon though.

Simon found it very interesting how after that comment the scar on MacTavish's face began looking even scarier than it already does, but how the man himself was speechless. Well, what was an appropriate response to such comment? Maybe a death threat, Simon thought, but unlike the many people he has received death threats from, MacTavish was a professional and was supposed to keep his composure.

And it was exactly that composure that Simon wanted him to lose. He was intent on doing so, he had what he wanted anyways so he could pretty much quit the interview now, let him go forty minutes earlier than planned, but forty minutes. That's how long it took to hit on a girl, convince her that dating him is worth it and then proceed to dump her while sober; surely he can piss someone off in that same amount of time.

"So, based off your answers, you think England is capable of winning the upcoming World Cup?" Simon asked for a confirmation that he already got minutes ago, but he wanted to literally hear it come out of his mouth.

"Yes, I do," MacTavish answered with a hum at the end, throwing one hand on the couch rest and a leg on his knee. Oh God, Simon was already sensing an explanation. "Everyone on the team has had a great season; Sanderson and Logan Walker even won the league with Manchester City—"

"—before getting their asses beat in the FA Cup final by Tottenham Hotspur, but go off."

"But who plays for Spurs? Exactly, our goalkeeper. Now, who was the man of the match?" MacTavish stated. Simon could only roll his eyes and wondered if this guy ever read the article where he talked about that. Or his articles just in general.

"You know, I was thinking of writing about how you aren't as much of an asshole that people assume you are, but I don't like to lie," and that was a fact. Sure, Simon is an asshole, one of the most impossible people to deal with, but at least he was an honest asshole.

MacTavish's response to that didn't go further than crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow. Good, he's smart enough to take his threats serious. Okay, maybe it wasn't just a threat, but an actual promise. Simon will see later; listen to the interview a few times and decide on a scale of his intern Toad, zero, to FC Barcelona, ten, how much he wants to toss him out of the window. Not as if he doesn't want to toss Toad out of the window, but he isn't going through the struggle of writing how he wants a different intern only for Toad to change it to how much of an angel he is and how he deserves chocolate and feet massages.

It remained silent for a few minutes, the only sound that was being made came from Simon's constant tapping on his laptop, already drafting his article and deciding if he should tear down MacTavish first or have a bit of mercy on the man and tear down England first. Again, the scale will make the final decision, but it doesn't hurt to think about how he should do it.

"Excuse me, but are you always content on offending people during interviews?" MacTavish asked and if Simon didn't know any better, he'd think he was seriously trying to keep this interview somewhat civil. "I agree that despite having won many trophies this season, some of the players individually may not have had their greatest season, but—"

Simon held up his hand, signalling for him to just shut up. "If you're going to tell me that at the World Cup they'll try their hardest to deliver the best performances they can, please leave the room now."

Oh shit, he was so close to pissing him off. The scar was now just screaming at him, telling him to go fuck himself and threatening to end his life in the very next minutes. Frankly enough, that encouraged Simon further and he's willing to bet good money that it's going to take less than three comments before he'll get a punch coming his way.

"Well then, mighty Simon Riley, tell me exactly why you think England won't win the tournament," MacTavish said. Poor guy was probably expecting Simon to be left speechless and not be able to say a single word without doing any research, but oh—

—oh little does he know the research has already been done. "Well, let's start off with England's history of sucking and unfortunately I'm not talking about the sexual kind, but if we were I'd be kinda worried about how high the percentage of gay men on the team is," Simon started off and was surprised to hear a quiet chuckle coming from MacTavish before a mutter about how slightly homophobic that sounded. "But let's take the Euros back in 2016 as example; you guys barely went through the group stage and most of the goals you scored were because of stupid mistakes made by the opposition. Those exact goals are what got you to the World Cup to because miraculously both Holland and Spain made many mistakes. Not as if you guys didn't, but the difference is that even if you guys make no mistakes, the other team will still be able to crush you."

If only it wasn't to piss MacTavish off more, Simon would've told him to read some of his articles, but that silent growl that left the man's mouth; another reason why this unnecessary rant is so worth it.

"But let's imagine everyone got their anger management classes in time - which I highly recommend getting, by the way -, that you're the captain this tournament isn't such an earth shattering thing. It doesn't change you guys lack an attack and, for a team whose defense resembles a barricade in terms of appearance, can't defend at all. Or that your striker has hit the goalpost more than he has hit his wife—" okay, maybe an insensitive comment, whatever, "and that your goalkeeper is still the type to flirt with a cute girl on the stands midway the game; man really loves girls half his age way too much. And, as last, it doesn't change that you hate Shepherd."

"We don't hate Shephe—"

Once again, Simon interrupted MacTavish's sentence by holding up his hand. "Finish that sentence and I'll toss you out the window," he threatened, shoving his laptop aside and rolling up the sleeves of his sweater as if to show he'll seriously do it and is now preparing for it.

"The only argument you can use now is that FIFA's current vice president is the father of the Walker brothers and that the president is their godfather, but we both know that isn't the smartest thing to say despite it being true," Simon said finally. Honestly he should've passed on the offer to follow England's journey to the World Cup and write about their chances of winning it; he's sure he can talk more about it with MacTavish than he has done in his articles.

It seemed as if MacTavish had no comeback to what Simon said, so a satisfied smirk settled on the Englishman's lips. Ah, the sweet taste of victory. If anything tastes better than getting punched in the face by some guy whose panties are more knotted than some dreadlocks, it's the taste of victory.

Sadly enough, MacTavish couldn't shut up, "Who died and made you Mourinho?" he said and Simon could hear a bit of desperation in his voice, as if he was holding himself back from either crying or hurting someone, in this case Simon.

"Assuming from the way you're talking, the same person who died and made you Zidane. You're barely on Klopp's level," Simon replied and that seemed to have been the final straw.

For the first time in years though, Simon was caught slightly off guard by the fist connecting with his jaw.

* * *

Sitting down with a pack of ice pressed to his forehead, Simon thanked whoever was listening for gifting him with the ability to dodge punches like a professional. Sure, you can move as quick as MacTavish just did, but it doesn't change the fact that Simon always has more experience with getting punched than the other has with punching people. By now it was an automatic reflex to dodge when he feels a fist coming his way, even when he isn't paying much attention. It's rare he gets hit though, not new, but rare.

But it doesn't matter, it was only his forehead anyways and it doesn't change a thing about his attitude, may it be a good or bad thing. "So, what would you rather hear; the rest of my chicken analogies or a full analysis of your punching abilities which, just so you know your feelings will be hurt, are more saddening than Mariah Carey's singing abilities, may it rest in peace," Simon said and leaned back in the couch, deciding he might as well relax now he's holding ice against his head and the interview is almost over.

"Honestly you and Merrick would get along so well; you both are unbearable assholes," MacTavish sighed, seemingly having calmed down while Simon was pretending to be in the wild scavenging for food - probably chicken -, but in reality he was just sneaking around the building in the search for some ice.

Simon was sure that MacTavish intended it to be insulting, but c'mon, Merrick; that guy's a legend. He's the sugar daddy everyone needs in their life because fuck, that beard only made Simon wet and he's a dude. "I'd die only to be mentioned in the same breath as the Thomas Merrick, so thank you," Simon simply answered.

"Yeah, definitely Merrick's ty—" MacTavish's sentence was interrupted at the end by the noise of Simon's phone going off, indicating that the interview was over. Finally, some good news after this entire interview. As funny as it was for Simon, it was tiring to be in the same room with someone like MacTavish for more than five minutes.

Both men gathered their stuff, which meant for MacTavish only his phone and jacket while Simon had to also shove his laptop inside the bag he brought along, but fuck if he even knew where his bag was. It remained silent and both were happy with it, never wanting to hear the other's voice ever again in their life. At least, not in the way they just spoke. Simon could handle MacTavish if he's less of a stupid person.

For some reason he also seriously thought that it may be a good idea to see if he can deal with him outside of interviews, so while MacTavish was waiting for someone to come pick him up for whatever he's supposed to be doing after this - Simon was betting some good money on shooting some male underwear advertisements - he simply held his hand out. MacTavish didn't seem to get it, however, so with a sigh Simon just took his phone out of the man's hand.

"As much as you dislike me, I'm an easy man; pay me and I'll tear down whoever needs to be teared down. When you decide you want Shepherd sacked - God, don't look at me like that, we both know the team hates him - Shepherd sacked, I'll even do it for free and make sure he's sacked the very next day," Simon said as he entered his phone number into the player's phone. He quickly decided to also put MacTavish's number in his own so he knows who it is when he gets texted.

When he handed back the phone, he noticed the confused stare on MacTavish's face. "If you ever get in a scandal or anyone else on the team does, pay me and I can make sure you won't get called this generation's John Terry, alright?" Simon offered and that seemed to be enough for MacTavish as the confusion disappeared from his face. Of course, no man wants to be compared to John Terry except, well, John Terry.

"I find it both terrifying and interesting how you went from insulting me to offering to save my career when needed," MacTavish chuckled as he changed the Simon's name on his phone from Future Mrs. Merrick to Merrick's fanboy. "Or my reputation; if Grinch can punch his wife and get away with only a bit of a damaged reputation, so can I."

"Are you saying you're going to punch your wife or girlfriend? I mean, I have it on tape now and I will use it against you in court," Simon said, ignoring how the wifebeater got called Grinch which was a name he was completely unfamiliar with.

"Isn't that how you met your last girlfriend, Riley?" MacTavish asked and Simon only snorted.

Ah, Ilona, so he's familiar with the story. How amazing was that relationship; Russian woman with a lot of spice, exactly how he likes his partners. Nice body as well, Simon had a great time with her when he didn't get punched which was only in bed, sometimes not even then.

"Ilona is quite an unique character, you can only meet unique characters in an unique way," Simon retorted, but received a snort as reply.

As a woman walked in to get MacTavish, the originally Scottish man opened his mouth for one last time that day. "I have no idea which is worse; your past relationships or chicken analogies," he smiled, but Simon doubted he was really joking. "Maybe until another time, Simon."

He watched the Scot leave, the woman who was accompanying him asking constant questions about the interview and Simon could hear them until they got to the elevator, most likely.

Simon is sure he must've been some kind of saint in a past life because damn, his day went great.


	2. Chapter 2

The World Cup started. It was great; people were waving the flag of their country, Russia seemed so lively and Shakira was singing. The most important one was definitely Shakira. Simon would be lying if he says that her hips do lie because if that openings performance isn't one of the most arousing things ever, he wants to see which porn exactly beats her.

While football fans were preparing for either the best month of their lives or for a month full of heartbreaks, Simon was tearing down every single team. Group by group, team by team. He had finished cursing whoever thought that tiki-taka is a good thing that should be implemented in Spanish football and saying that watching France play with the expectation of them winning is like expecting the Dutch team to ever qualify for a tournament soon; it won't happen.

The forum he was on was hilarious though; football fans never fail to amuse him. One for one too petty to admit that the chance their team will win is one in thirty-two. The chance they'll get out of the group stage might be even smaller depending on how good the team is. He's sure he has had at least twenty people send him private messages, each including a death threat or a nice suggestion to go kill himself. He of course politely declined by sending back _1v1 me at the gates of hell._ Not professional, but he was trying to sound like a football fan. The only way he can achieve that is by sounding like some twelve year old playing Call of Duty online. The difference is that he doesn't use the n-word.

He was expecting many things to happen. For example his "boss" Toad - who works both as intern and boss somehow - calling him to tell he wants someone else to mentor him or that he is fired as the one covering England's campaign. No matter how suicidal it is to be forced to cover every single bit of it, he had to make sacrifices if he wants to tear down England and its captain.

Speaking of the captain, Simon is surprised he hasn't been texted yet. Sure, he was an asshole, but he has seen what MacTavish said about their interview; an interesting, but humorous experience. Besides, his Instagram post also said only nice things about him. Simon would accept bith as a compliment if it wasn't for the headache caused by guess who.

If your answer was the John MacTavish, congratulations, you answered correctly. He guessed that the man was too busy preparing to lift the cup with England on FIFA 18 to text. Now onto round two of the quiz.

But, as much as Simon dislikes people and social interaction, he was kinda wishing that MacTavish called alreadt.. The night had only begun and he was already contemplating to go to a bar and drink vodka because, man, he's in Russia. Surely at some point in time someone made it illegal to go to Russia and not drink vodka while there. He's positive the same goes for writing about Russia. Unfortunately - or fortunately, in Simon's opinion - England was in the group with Russia, Portugal and Colombia. That was going to be a lot of alcohol, fish and chips and just to do honor to Pablo Escobar's country, he'll try to get his hands on some drugs.

Okay, point of the story, Simon can't live without alcohol, nor can he live without bothering people. There was a difference between annoying people online and in real life. MacTavish was just the perfect target, but he doesn't like starting things. Well, he could trick MacTavish into saying something dumb so that Simon can be his usual asshole self.

Maybe he can trick MacTavish into calling him.

He wasn't expecting anything when he texted MacTavish the link to their interview. It was now written into words and slightly edited so neither will have to deal with UEFA later. He also sent the raw draft of it, unedited and all the insults were there along with a spoken message about how if MacTavish lets it leak to the press, he'll personally come scarve a penis on the eye without scar.

He didn't get a response straightaway, just as expected, but Simon did notice that right before he closed his phone that MacTavish read it. _Huh, for once not busy with his hair_ Simon hummed to himself. Well, he supposes to have a magnificent mohawk like MacTavish, you need to put some effort in it.

He put his phone right next to his keyboard so he'd see it when MacTavish replies as he continued answering the next five new death threats. As tiring as it was, someone has to do it and since he brought this all upon himself, he has to. At least he gets a good laugh out of how unoriginal each one of them is.

Ten minutes had passed before Simon finally got his reply. **You should post the draft somewhere too. I thought you're a honest journalist** the reply was and Simon snorted. There was something funny about getting called a journalist. Especially since he never intended to become one and also never studied for it. It just happened.

 **Don't trust the press** Simon sent back. MacTavish only replied with a laughing emoji before asking if he watched Shakira's performance. Of course he did, what sane man wouldn't? Besides a gay man maybe, but even a gay man would watch her. Simon here is that gay man, though he supposes the name bisexual who prefers men way more is more fitting.

From then on, Simon wasn't paying attention to his laptop. Instead he found MacTavish more interesting than an entire army of football fans that seemed to be out for his head. He found himself joking with MacTavish, making fun of France - finally someone who agrees with him. He was having fun, it almost felt as if they were friends.

That should've been the first sign this was heading in the wrong direction.

* * *

"—and, finally, the tears of a bunch of salty England fans mixed with some coffee." Simon looked around his hotel room to see if he has everything he needs before he has to commit mental suicide aka England versus Colombia. At least he has James Rodriguez as eye candy and depending on if he let his hair be curly, Gary Sanderson. on certain people curly hair is such a turn on and the right winger was a perfect example of that. He betted the guy's a masochist judging by how often he gets himself hurt during games. Almost just perfect for Simon. From what he has seen the guy is straighter than a guy who says "no homo" after being nice to another guy though.

You know, Sanderson may actually be gay.

Three more minutes until kick off, Simon has already talked about what he is expecting to happen. "This is going to be like some porno. England as the female, crying as the male, Colombia, pounds her into being his bitch. Not as if she isn't that already," he had said. The live chat right next to it was already threatening him, but it were friendly threats. You know, the type of threats you get from friends. He was fairly positive he saw Toad's name somewhere as well.

The teams were walking out the tunnels up to the field and oh, if that isn't one handsome Scot upfront. For a traitor that betrayed his own country and went to England looking for success, he did look good.

Not good enough to distract Simon from Gary Sanderson right there behind him though.

"If only this was a porno. Sanderson is cute enough for it, looks like the ideal twink," Simon blurted out, something he does quite a lot. He was glad that they could only hear him through live commentary. He was sure Sanderson would sue him for sexual harassment if people could see how far he went with his joke.

"As adults, let's all talk about this for a second; from the England players, who're the ones to bottom and who'd top?" Simon decided to ask for entertainment's sake.

Simon was humored when he saw the chat actually responding to his question and he made a mental note to himself to not save this. Sanderson, Allen and Logan Walker would have to sue so many people if they saw it. As far as tops were chosen; Merrick, Russ and MacTavish were the most wanted. He doubted any of them would mind topping any of the three bottoms mentioned earlier.

Simon, however, almost threw up when he saw that the Walker brothers surely have done it before. Okay, rumors about a gay incest scandal have been spread about them since a certain picture posted by David, that's true. It doesn't change that it's one of the most disgusting things he'll ever hear of in his life.

One of the other things that also was disgusting, as expected, was the match.

If only it wasn't for the promise of money, Simon would've committed suicide within ten minutes of the game.

* * *

Simon finished up the commentary, even drafted the article - and may have mocked MacTavish for his red card and David Walker for plainly existing - and edited it for the biggest part by the time he went to bed. He would've stayed up longer if only he wasn't immune to coffee. He was surprised he didn't fall asleep halfway through the first half.

Beating suicide was much more fun than he thought, especially with the watchers he had. He wasn't sure about the exact number, but he knew it were a lot. Fortunately for him, most were used to his asshole comments and food analogies, but he enjoys reading the chat way too much at times. His croissant analogy definitely delivered the most interesting live chat.

As fun as it may have been, everyone needs sleep. Some may claim sleep is for the weak, but Simon? He was longing for it now and was glad that his day was finally over. He has done way too much work, so much that he's even too tired to go on online forums and piss of Uruguayan fans; something Toad would highly disapprove of because, as he said, it isn't the fans' fault Suarez bit a ref and the team was immediately disqualified. Sometimes the American would go as far as claiming it's unfair and if only it wasn't for how much power he has as intern, Simon would've fired him and written so many complaints.

Every single one of those complaints would turn into love confessions though. At least one would say that Simon is saying that they can take half of his salary and give it to Toad for a well deserved vacation.

Bless that Toad's still in England.

It's a curse how every time Simon just wants a good night of rest, he ends up having nightmares about his intern. That guy was like the devil's son, cockier than Ibrahimovic and Ronaldo combined and that definitely meant something. He's surprised Toad doesn't refer to himself in third person yet, the keyword here being yet.

Simon was staring up at his ceiling, waiting for sleep to come to him and rest well for one night. In his opinion he definitely deserved that, but opinions can differ per person.

Also per asshole.

"MacTavish…" Simon groaned as he accepted the call, not giving a damn about how sexual he sounded. It seemed like MacTavish also thought it sounded more like a sexual groan than an annoyed groan by how the man coughed, muttering something incoherent to himself.

Simon was debating on whether to hang up as it stayed silent on the other side of the line except for some rustling in the background. Justas his finger went to the red button he heard the man speak.

"You're a fucking asshole."

Now it was Simon's turn to stay silent. Wait, did he just get called because MacTavish realized the obvious? "Don't you have any hobbies other than calling people and telling them facts?" Simon muttered and looked at the clock hanging across his room. "It's 2AM, you should be celebrating or getting into some sex scandal."

"What the hell should I be celebrating? We lost, three nil. You even wrote porn about it," MacTavish replied and Simon noticed a hint of tiredness in the man's voice.

Comment on it or keep quiet? Obviously comment. "Look dear, we're both tired so call me tomorrow. I mean, unless you want phone sex,. Generally men sound better right after they wake up so call me then," Simon said, completely dismissing what MacTavish said. They can talk about the porn Simon wrote after he is finished editing it and posting it on some fanfiction site.

A sigh was the only response he received, along with someone complaining about how fucking cold the room is in the background. Roommates, Simon guessed. He recognized the voice and knew it was one of the older guys, but he wasn't sure if it was Merrick. It could be that pedophile, God forbid he ever says his name again. He hoped it was Merrick, what an honor it'd be to hear his voice.

"You're coming to the next game, aren't you?" MacTavish asked, but it sounded more like he knew he was coming. Simon raised an eyebrow at the inquiry, not able to recall telling MacTavish about his schedule ahead of Russia. Not even Toad and it's his job to tell Simon his schedule or give it. Toad isn't quite known for doing his job the way he is supposed to anyways.

"The game is in two days, call me about it tomorrow," Simon sighed and for a second time reached for the red button.

"Great, let's watch the game together."

Ah, shit.

Simon paused and closed his eyes, trying to hold himself back from telling MacTavish how he'd rather watch the game with boring Milner who is nicknamed that for a reason. In fact, he'd rather play on England's side than watch it with MacTavish. Okay, not exactly true. It'd be career suicide to play for England so Simon's already surprised the team has so many players who are great individually. The keyword here being individually.

"As long as I'm allowed to write about Russia DP'ing you guys.

"You need hobbies and mental help, Riley."

"Great, good we found out things we already knew. Now, goodbye."

Simon didn't even give the man the chance to open his mouth and say anything as he immediately cut off the call. He knows that he'll be talking for longer if he keeps hearing him and as nice as MacTavish's voice may be, he isn't in the mood.

Still, almost ten seconds after he hang up, Simon saw a text appear at the top of his screen.

 **MacT: _seats above the tunnel are free, see you there_**

Simon groaned at the thought of spending almost two hours with MacTavish. Go choke satan, Simon sent back.

But, you know, maybe it won't be that bad.


	3. Chapter 3

Change of mind, maybe it'll be bad.

Two days later, better known as the day of the game, Simon's day couldn't have started worse as he was awoken by the smell of something burning.

"What fucking idiot…" Simon muttered as he smelled the scent. He could figure out quickly that the fire was ether small and nothing to worry about, perhaps someone is just cooking and there's too much fire, or the fire was far away.

Slowly, the smell of fire started becoming stronger and stronger until it definitely wasn't a small fire and way closer than he was expecting and wishing it to be.

At first Simon hesitated getting out of bed; his bed was too warm and comfortable. He wished he went to bed earlier so he would've enjoyed it for longer. It didn't seem like he was allowed to complain about how bad his sleeping habits are when the burnt smell began getting stronger, as if telling Simon to get over it.

He still had to technically push himself out of bed, not motivated enough to get out yet. Slipping on a shirt in case he has to go outside, Simon took a quick look outside of his window.

There was nothing out of the ordinary to be seen there, just the streets in the early morning. He did see some people running around the place, but he assumed it were just people from the cafe next to the hotel and not as if it has something to do with the scent he's smelling; perhaps it came from the cafe, also a possibility.

As it didn't seem a if there was anything huge going on or possibly concerning, Simon closed his window curtains. It was still far too early, but he decided he might as well go out now and suppose he can enjoy his day. Maybe something good will come out of it, maybe something terrible, perhaps a mix between both if that's possible.

So, maybe fifteen minutes later, completely dressed in dark jeans and the plainest black t-shirt he could find, Simon was sitting on his desk with phone in the hand. He was thinking whether he should invite MacTavish out for breakfast - or lunch, it was closer to lunch time anyways. They were going to watch an entire game together from the looks of it, but he was thinking that then also grabbing something to eat was too much. It could make MacTavish think they were friends which isn't quite Simon's intention. Not as if he doesn't want friends, but he didn't want to make him think they already are friends.

Oh fuck it, he has nothing to lose. He sent out nothing more than that he's going out for lunch and the place, remembering the place where he first ate at the day of his arrival and hoped that MacTavish knew the place as well. Five minutes later, the reply came that MacTavish's coming.

Well, this was going to be one eventful day for sure.

* * *

"No, Riley, you don't get it."

"I don't get what? That you can't get ladies?"

"Don't you have any hobbies besides insulting people?"

Simon shrugged at the question, supposing he doesn't really have any hobbies besides that. Sure, the occasional football game against Toad or whoever dared to play against him, but that was it.

The lunch was surprisingly enjoyable. It was spent mostly in silence, quietly drinking and glancing at each other, sometimes even shooting the other a smile, but that was it. Neither of them really minded it though.

It was obvious they liked each other. In a friendly sense then; as far as Simon was concerned MacTavish is straight and he wasn't planning on catching feelings for someone like him. Even if he's into men, they'd both get crucified for dating or even coming out to the public.

Enjoying the coffee they bought, the two walked through the streets of Russia, shielding their eyes from the sun in their own way. The game was in less than four hours from now, but MacTavish said he still had some business to attend as team captain; suspended or not, he has duties. Simon doubts that it's necessary for him to be there and that he actually just wanted to be there because the field is completely empty, as well as for the stands, so might as well make use of that kind of privacy by kicking a ball around. Simon liked the sound of that, but he didn't like laying inside a stadium. Empty or not, something about playing inside a stadium has always given him some kind of unsettling feeling.

What wasn't unsettling, however, was sitting on the benches. It was surprisingly calming to sit somewhere of which he knows it'll be so loud within a few hours time, but now it's just so peaceful. Knowing that the stadium will be filled with fans later, all expecting to take home the win while half will return heartbroken… yeah he liked it.

He knew he was sitting on the coach's place, having watched a game from group H who had previously played in this exact stadium. The coach was sitting down most of the time, so not only was it easy for him to guess where he sat, but also to guess the outcome of the game that he didn't bother finish watching. Most games were too predictable for him anyways, rarely ever was he really surprised by the final result.

"Ah, Soap wasn't lying when he said that the Simon Riley would be here; I didn't expect him to take Shepherd's position as coach though."

But, like with almost all people, it does surprise him when j=people jump out of nowhere.

Simon jumped slightly when he suddenly heard a voice talking behind followed by clearly someone else chuckling. Simon hadn't even heard any footsteps, so he was guessing that either one, they sneaked up to him or two, he has gone deaf. He hoped it was neither as both were equally as worrying, he rather have the option where he was too focused on what he was thinking about the place.

He turned his head to see who were the ones talking, only to find out it were the only two England players he hasn't ever interviewed; Keegan Russ and whatever the left back was called, Simon wasn't even gonna bother trying to pronounce it. Because that guy's name is too difficult for him. Common problem for everyone though, so he was dubbed as Kick because he'll kick everything that breathes or is in his way.

"Welcome to my crib, people," Simon joked as he threw one leg on the seat next to him and an arm around the back of the chair, getting into a more relaxed position. "I know it's small, but I'm in the middle of a renovation; when it's done, this place will look like Aladdin's palace."

Kick held his hand in front of his mouth to muffle a chuckle as Keegan slowly shook his head. "Technically it isn't Aladdin's palace; more like the Sultan's palace or Jasmine's palace after her father dies because, you know, they're the royal family and Aladdin is a street rat. Also, that isn't quite the definition of renovation," Keegan mumbled as if it was unimportant. Well, not as if it's a necessary fact to know. But he made it sound as if it's something everyone knows and Simon doesn't.

"Alright, alright, Keegie, your last name is Russ; not Einstein," Simon muttered and swung his hand a bit around to express his annoyance just a bit more. Another muffled chuckle came from Kick. "The game doesn't start any time soon, why are you even here?"

"Shouldn't we be asking you that?" Keegan returned a question. Kick just nodded in agreement before taking the seat next to Simon, finally having taken his arm away from his mouth.

"MacTavish will probably be here in about fifteen minutes, no more than twenty. Would you like some company?" Kick suggested, a youthful smile covering his face. No one would ever suspect that he's already a man in his early thirties with such looks.

Simon wasn't even given the chance to say no as Keegan also took place right behind them, already starting an embarrassing story about his roommate.

* * *

Blushing like a schoolgirl, panting like a dog in heat and probably about to channel his true yandere nature if anyone looks at his man now he has claimed him, Simon made his way through the crowd to where he and MacTavish decided they'd sit.

It seemed as if MacTavish had bought them something to drink throughout the game as Simon can't recall buying anything since lunch and he hadn't even told the other he was thirsty. He stopped rushing himself through the insane amount of people at the thought of it, standing completely still for a moment.

It was such a simple gesture, something friends would do for eachother, but he wasn't even sure if they are friends. That's one, but two was that there was something so nice about finding that MacTavish is kind enough to do this all; not only the drinks, but he meant everything the Scot has done, especially their seats which had an amazing view over the pitch.

Simon took a breath before he continued walking to where the man was seated, his face still a faint red, but now it was caused by the realization.

As soon as Simon sat down, MacTavish's head turned to him and a smile appeared on his face, shortly after followed by a chuckle. Simon raised an eyebrow at it, not understanding why he was amused; sure, he was a bit red, but it wasn't that funny, was it?

"What the hell's up with you?" Simon asked, attempting to control his breathing so MacTavish doesn't find out about his terrible stamina. The question though only made MacTavish laugh more.

He stayed utterly confused until MacTavish hold his drink against his cheek, the beverage turning out to be a cold one. "Never thought I'd see the day that the Simon Riley blushes," he stated, the most adorable smile Simon has ever seen on his face. Even the scar didn't look as intimidating as it always does.

"I…" Simon began, but was distracted by how it was as if MacTavish was being softer than before. So was he, but he'd never admit that. He had to finish his sentence though he remembered when he saw MacTavish's frown, not even needing to verbally ask to continue.

"I touched Cristiano Ronaldo and he promised me to give me his shirt after the game."

A loud groan left MacTavish's mouth, drawing the attention if some around them and gone was that soft look. Well, not completely, but he was back to being annoyed with Simon preferring Ronaldo much more over Messi.

Simon didn't even need to think about the reason MacTavish groaned as he just knew it. "Hey! I can't do anything that your little hobbit boyfriend is bad in comparison to that Greek fucking god!" he immediately protested, once more drawing attention to them as he was technically shouting already. A few chuckles were heard here and there, people probably amused by their little argument that just started.

"Why do you always have to insult people? And Messi can offer way more to his team than Ronaldo, such as passes!" MacTavish shouted back, apparently not caring about the people. Simon could appreciate that in a man and fuck if he does now. The thing was that he doesn't appreciate what's coming out of his mouth.

"Oh shut up! We both know the only reason Messi is generally more liked because of his so called humble ways! You're a footballer, you know you guys put on an act half of the time, but look at Ronaldo; a real man! Not to mention, Real Madrid, most assists; shove that up your ass!" came Simon's reply and he noticed a few phones being directed in their direction. MacTavish caught it as well, but he didn't do anything so Simon didn't respond to it.

A sigh escaped the man's lips as he put a hand on Simon's forehead, looking genuinely interested in it somehow.

"What are you doi—"

"Just as I thought, you're a real hothead."

The simplicity of that statement was incredible, incredible enough that it plainly annoyed Simon. He crossed his arms defensively before bumping his shoulder against MacTavish's a bit rougher than is considered friendly.

"Aren't you gonna continue defending your hobbit boyfriend?" Simon asked, nudging his shoulder. He could see the teams walking down the tunnel away from pitch, now completely done with the warm-up.

As Simon looked at MacTavish, glad that they were about the same height so he doesn't have t look down, he noticed the hard look on his face. It was expected that he'd be upset he can't play the game, but it didn't change that he doesn't like seeing him that way.

"Portugal will play calm during the first half and try to make England attack a lot so they lose their energy. Then in the second half they'll put more pressure on you guys and you'll obviously break," Simon told, simply stating something that should be considered a fact, but it was just to make MacTavish feel a bit better. "But, you know, England's defense is great; no way in hell anyone's getting past Merrick, Kick, Mitchell and Walker. It'd only be stronger with you as defensive midfield."

A smile appeared on MacTavish's face as he heard the compliment coming from Simon, a rare occurrence that happens only once in a thousand years. So, that's the way he prefers to see his companion for this game.

Simon picked up his drink and rested his head on MacTavish's shoulder, claiming that it's comfortable when asked about by the man. The teams were coming back on the pitch and kick-off will be in just a few more minutes.

"Oh yeah, Simon? About Messi; the main difference between the two is that Ronaldo has a team that delivers the chances on a silver platter and Messi has to create them for himself. It is not that fucking hard to understand."

"Tell me then why it is so hard for him to create for himself in the Champions League and every international game."

* * *

John MacTavish.

Simon absolutely despises the name John; it's too plain, but oddly enough it fits the man. Well, if he was wearing something like a tuxedo and looked really classy then.

But the odd thing was that Simon liked him.

His mouth went dry whenever MacTavish spoke about something so passionately. He was first immune to it, during their first meeting and it never happened before.

There was a strange feeling in his stomach, a feeling of emptiness mixed with nausea. The emptiness was nothing new, he hasn't found anything to fill that empty hole with, but the nausea was a surprise. It only happened when MacTavish gave him that sweet smile that made him feel weak in his knees.

It was a difficult task to concentrate on the game. It wouldn't have been if f he wasn't there for work. Still, MacTavish's reactions were much more interesting, regardless of what is happening on the pitch. He'd cover his eyes and shake his head when something goes wrong to show disapproval and as if to protect himself from having to see more of it. Not to mention the hug Simon was pulled into when England managed to score a goal.

His skin tingled and he felt more aware of his appearance. He wondered if MacTavish would notice all the small scars on his hand, caused by nothing more than stupid accidents, but they stood out compared to his pale skin. The worst was when MacTavish briefly held his hand just to give it a squeeze, but Simon felt his heart beating out of his chest.

It even went as far as feeling jealous when a young female fan asked for a picture during half time. MacTavish isn't a pedophile, no, but he couldn't describe it; he just doesn't want anyone to lay a single hand on MacTavish. Wanted to keep him to himself.

It almost felt like love, but as much as it mag seem like it, it wasn't.

Perhaps adoration is the word.

It were the final minutes of the match, two one to Portugal, both goals scored by Ronaldo. Simon being Simon, he had to celebrate these goals while being surrounded by England supporters only and he was sure everyone was annoyed by it, but MacTavish? He just laughed while clapping or put a hand on Simon's shoulder for a mere second.

The goal scored by England was made by Logan, a beautiful attack finished by a cross from Sanderson that Logan kicked in with a bicycle kick. Truly a stunning goal from England, Simon admitted that, but what else would you expect from the two?

Now, with less than two minutes and maybe three more minutes extra time, both MacTavish and Simon were completely focused on the game. It had become so intense; while the front three tried their best to get through the Portuguese men, Portugal had to deal with Merrick. Not quite ideal. Portugal obviously had the worst out of two.

Neither of them meant to be holding hands, but at some point during those five minutes it just happened. Simon could feel MacTavish squeezing his hand tightly every time England either nearly conceded or scored and it distracted him each time for a second, but upon seeing how the other was so mesmerized by the game, he didn't want to say anything about how he was hurting him.

Everyone's heart stopped when Mitchell had to take a risky decision, both options having bad outcomes that are more likely to happen than a good outcome. After David Walker had failed to take down Eder outside the box, Mitchell was the one who had to defend against him as Merrick was covering players that could potentially be passed to and Kick was helping with that.

It was either tackle Eder and risk getting a penalty in their disadvantage or just stand in front of him until he shoots and block it with his body if possible and risk him scoring like that.

It was all or nothing, that's something he knew, so of course he went for the tackle and seconds later a whistle was heard.

"That wasn't a penalty! Clearly he dived!" MacTavish protested against the referee's decision, kind of a captain's instinct to do so. Simon had to agree though; even if he isn't sitting with the press where everyone has their own little scene to see the game from nearby, the way Eder fell was odd.

Unfortunately the referee thought otherwise as he awarded a penalty to Portugal. Simon was drooling when he saw Ronaldo posing there as he always does before penalties.

"Please Sandman, block the ball…" Mactavish muttered, obviously stressed from the situation and one more surprise away from having a heart attack. Simon could relate with him as this entire march has been full of surprises from the beginning, too nerve wracking.

The commentator's loud voice was heard through the speakers installed inside the stadium, talking about how Ronaldo has only missed one penalty this entire season, but that even from that attempt he scored a goal from the rebounce. Needless to say, it was obvious what was most likely going to happen.

"Goal or no goal?" Simon whispered the question to MacTavish and he raised his shoulders as if to say he has no idea. This time Simon accepted it because it was really a questionable situation; at the same time the goalkeeper's one of the best England keepers ever - probably the reason why England isn't a complete failure -, the man behind the ball though, Jesus, he has even managed to make world class keepers like Manuel Neuer, Gianluigi Buffon and Keylor Navas struggle.

Everyone was bracing themselves for the worst, what that exactly contained was different for everyone. Simon squeezed MacTavish's hand as a way to comfort him as Ronaldo took a deep breath, signaling he's about to take the kick.

The stadium roared loudly when the ball made contact, but everyone was English.

English.

Bless the goalie's mom for giving birth to such pedophile.

Simon was finally able to breathe properly again, but he saw how MacTavish was still tensed up. Understandable it was as though the ball was blocked, there were only ten seconds left on the clock and England was still down by one goal.

Ten seconds wasn't enough as Sanderson was just about to start the attack setup, but put to a halt by the whistle right after his left foot touched the ball and sent it flying to Keegan as he was the only one not covered by an opponent.

With a sigh Simon got up from his seat, not even bothering to pull away his hand from MacTavish's. Most people were starting to leave and Simon wanted to pull the other man along with him downstairs, but MacTavish barely moved when he tried to do so. Even several pulls didn't earn him a reaction as the man remained unmoved.

Not wanting to let go of his warm hand, Simon simply stopped his attempts and moved so he was standing right next to MacTavish. His expression was unreadable, but no words were required to explain how he felt.

"Hey, tough luck; try gain in four years," Simon said as he bent over the rails that kept them from falling on top of the people below them. He decided to get behind MacTavish, switching his hands so he could still hold his hand as he gave him a hug from behind, but then was left clueless as to what to do. Was he supposed to comfort him? It was his team that lost after all and as captain, he was kinda the one responsible for the loss despite not playing.

Simon sighed as they stood there, just hugging as if there won't be anything on the news about it the next day. As if this isn't scandal material and as if they won't get slaughtered for people only thinking they're possibly gay. He noticed how MacTavish had loosened up and was glad that the hug at least had some effect, that he isn't risking to get slaughtered for no reason.

"Oh well, it's just a game at the end of the day," MacTavish eventually muttered. Although he meant that he was accepting the loss just the way it is, without getting pissed or being too upset. Simon didn't believe it though, it didn't sound convincing.

"You have one more game; maybe with a lot of luck you might be able to advance. I mean, E is one of the first letters in the alphabet so if you base it on alphabetical order, you guys might get lucky," Simon said as he pulled away from the hug. "But, you know, just enjoy football; you may not have won, but the fans looked satisfied with how the team played."

It was Simon's best attempt at comforting MacTavish and it seemed to have worked as Simon saw the corner of his lips twitch into a small smile. That was the way he preferred it, he doesn't want to see MacTavish upset over a thing like this, even if it was a big deal to him.

"You know Riley, you can be a decent person," MacTavish said and walked past him, pulling Simon along with him as they left the stands.

Simon shrugged at the compliment. He wasn't a complete asshole, that was a simple fact, but it was nice to hear it come from someone other than Toad. That it was MacTavish was even better as everyone knew of his reputation of someone who rarely ever gives compliments without adding an insult to it three seconds later.

Neither of them said a thing to each other after that as MacTavish dragged Simon with him downstairs. Simon wondered if MacTavish doesn't have anything to do because he accompanied him all the way to the exit, that was what he initially thought.

So, when they walked past the exit, Simon couldn't help but question where the hell he was getting brought to.

The further they got, the less people there were and he'd say the darker it got, but it was mire like one time there is light, one time there isn't. It was a mystery to Simon himself why he was trusting MacTavish enough to drag him wherever he pleases to. Maybe because they've spent the entire day together? Perhaps, but it became a bit worrisome as eventually the only people they saw were janitors.

Simon's heart beat harder than it did before, mostly because or nerves, but partly because fuck, he was still holding hands with someone. It wasn't enough to distract him from everything else, but it was enough to make Simon's cheeks turn a bit bright when he thought about it as more than just an action.

Eventually MacTavish opened a door to a dark room. Simon couldn't see what was inside until the lights were turned on, making him realize that they were inside a janitor's closet. He had no idea why he was brought here, the only possible idea behind this was sex in the janitor's closet as a way for MacTavish to deal with the loss, but he doubted that was it.

"So, why the hell—"

Simon tried to ask MacTavish why they were there as he was suddenly pushed back against the wall, a little shout leaving his mouth. It wasn't a hard clap so he wasn't hurt, but it surprised him. Fortunately it looked like MacTavish expected the reaction so automatically covered his mouth by his hand.

So, there they stood; Simon pushed back against the wall, MacTavish dangerously close to him. Their hands were still wrapped around each other and Simon could feel his hands get sweaty. Or was it MacTavish? Either way, it doesn't matter. What does matter, however, is whatever is happening now.

"Promise we'll hang out tomorrow," MacTavish said, his voice low and quiet. It came out as nothing more than just a quiet whisper, but it still sent shivers down Simon's spine.

"What the fuck? If we have the time, sure, but why—" Simon stopped his own sentence as MacTavish leaned in closer, their lips almost brushing against each other and if one of them moved two inches forward, they'd be pressed up against each other.

"Don't make this too awkward," MacTavish mumbled, looking Simon straight in the eyes as he spoke and closed the distance between the two.

The second Simon realized what was happening, it was an almost automatic response to duck. MacTavish ended up pressing a kiss against his forehead,

It was silent for a second as MacTavish slowly pulled away, pausing in his moves every second or two. It was a miracle that the aura didn't immediately feel tense and that Simon wasn't too embarrassed, just shocked, but there was a look of hurt on MacTavish's face and Simon immediately noticed it.

"You should've asked for it," Simon simply said, trying to make it sound to the other that he simply reacted out of instinct because of the action. Another sad attempt to comfort MacTavish, he was on a great track

Although it was still clear as day that he wasn't happy with what happened, MacTavish was still able to give him a weak mile before opening the door again and making his way back to the exit with Simon right behind him. "I suppose so... I'm happy you didn't kill me though," he tried to joke around a bit in case it was awkward for either of them. Surprisingly enough, it wasn't awkward at all; Simon felt comfortable and so did MacTavish.

"Well, until tomorrow then?" Simon asked and MacTavish nodded.

Right before they both went their own, Simon stopped in his tracks when he heard MacTavish talk.

"Hey, didn't Cristiano promise you his shirt?"

At the realization that he hasn't received it yet, Simon immediately turned around and sprinted back inside. Mactavish could only smile, amused by how badly Simon wanted that jersey.

* * *

 **dunno how one manages to not update for almost two months, but I did it**

 **anyways, be a dear and leave behind a follow and a review! xx**


	4. Chapter 4

**it has been quite some time since i last updated and now that i've finally updated again, the chapter is short... oh well, hopefully more frequent updates from now on. reviews are much appreciated!**

* * *

A week has passed. Miraculously enough, England went through to the round of sixteen. The reason why was simple; Portugal was found guilty of paying the referee. Although Simon wasn't aware of it during the game, when he watched it back he could see it as clear as day. Russia and England were given the points they lost versus Portugal and came to a total of three points. It was a matter now of who won the game or who scored the most goals and conceded the least. Neither of that happened, so it was decided by penalties and God bless MacTavish. His goal was an absolute stunner for a penalty; using Ronaldo's trick so that the ball would bounce off the ground, MacTavish shot it in the upper left corner.

That was also the last penalty they needed to score to advance, making t extra special. MacTavish was a natural talent under pressure, it seemed, and delivered what he needed give. In the meantime, Simon was celebrating the win at home too; he wasn't necessarily happy that England won, but MacTavish did. He was far more important than England to Simon. Okay, Merrick too, but that isn't the point.

They had a relatively easy opponent next in the round of sixteen. It was just Chile, a team that England has always been able to beat and the same this time. All it took was one sprint from Allen through the defense for it to completely break down. As for England's defense? Merrick and David Walker were terrifying that night. Two goals from Gideon and one hell of a header from Mitchell and they secured their place in the quarter finals.

Simon began to think he may have been wrong about his prediction. Maybe England does have a pretty neat chance at at least getting in the top four, that's what he thought. They only had to win the next match in the quarter finals and boom, automatically top four.

He was honestly thinking that'd also happen, so he was confused when Toad texted him to google England out of nowhere. Simon had ignored those texts because though it was maybe two in the morning in England, it was six for Simon. Well, actually he shouldn't be complaining, but he was. He should also have a talk with Toad about his worrisome sleeping schedule.

Having buried his head underneath his pillow and praying Toad would just stop and let him sleep, Simon sighed. He was glad to hear his phone stop beeping, probably Toad has gotten annoyed.

The thing now was that Simon couldn't go back to sleep as he was too awake now. Thank you very fucking much, Toad. With a loud groan Simon got his head from underneath the pillow and got out of bed, not bothering to check his phone. Whatever it was must not be that important if Toad hasn't called.

Going through his usual morning routine, Simon was surprised that he could already hear footsteps outside of his hotel room. It sounded as if someone was running and as if it was coming closer. _Jesus, can't people go jog outside or so?_ Simon thought as shaved the beard that was threatening to appear. Sure, a stubble suited him, but the beard was just annoying.

As he threw some water on his face for good measurement, he heard rapid knocking on the door. He wasn't too worried though, so he took his time with getting ready to open the door.

Getting ready meant making sure his hair looks good because that's all that matters.

"MacTavish?" Simon asked, even more confused that he already was thank s to Toad. He was talking about googling England, does that mean the team did something stupid? Judging by MacTavish's frown and how his scar was screaming something that equals _oh look at me I'm edgy_ , but in a MacTavish way; yes. The answer was that they did something incredibly stupid.

Simon stepped aside to let MacTavish and closed the door behind them. Both appreciate privacy, Simon assumes, so he even locked it. He felt MacTavish's gaze all over his body, but oddly enough didn't feel ashamed. First of all, they both are male so knew they both have a dick, nothing to hide. Second of all, Simon was walking around in just boxers; that was like asking to get stared at.

"So, what's up? It's fucking early and I doubt we can go anywhere besides the park, but fuck if i know its location," Simon said as he sat down on his bed. He patted the spot next to him for MacTavish to sit, who was pacing around the room.

Simon decided to let him pace around all he wants for a bit before stopping him, but seemed as if he doesn't have to do anything as the other eventually sat down on his own. MacTavish dropped his head on Simon'shoulder. It resembled the way Simon did the exact same just a week ago, but only he didn't look frustrated then.

"You were right when you said the team hates Shepherd."

"No shit, I'm always right."

MacTavish groaned loudly at Simon's reply. He definitely wasn't in the mood for this, he could figure out so Simon just let him speak further without further interrupting him.

"So - God, why am I telling you this - so last night, a few hours ago, Ajax was making himself coffee. No idea what exactly happened, I was asleep, but he apparently did something and it pissed off Shepherd."

Simon raised an eyebrow. Ajax, he was familiar with that nickname and knew who he was talking about. The man's an angel though, so what the hell? How could he ever piss off Shepherd? That already sounded fishy.

He kept his mouth shut though and gestured for MacTavish to continue with his story, which he gladly did.

"He called everyone downstairs, most looked like zombies, but that doesn't matter. Then he started complaining about how the team never listens to him and such bullshit, you know. You're still ruder than him, but the difference is that he talked shit about everyone individually without knowing what he's talking about. You're a sports journalist god, so from you it's acceptable, but him? No way in hell."

"So, what you're trying to tell me is…" Simon questioned. He was getting what MacTavish was talking about, understood it completely, but its purpose? No idea.

"Well, we forced him to leave."

* * *

"Okay, do you now understand why you're so stupid? Couldn't it at least have waited until the World Cup is over?"

Simon being Simon, after MacTavish finished his story, immediately went on a rant about how the team is committing suicide. Not actual suicide, no one was dying yet. Simon just used that as a way to describe how badly they've fucked up.

MacTavish stayed quiet throughout the entire rant. Yes, he believed that Shepherd should leave, but he agreed that this was a bad timing. There's also a reason why Simon is a god compared to other sports journalists; he's honest. No matter how brutal, he'll say it the way it is. It was exactly what MacTavish needed; someone to just scold him for being such an idiot.

Both men calmed down for a moment or two, slowly breathing. Simon was still trying to believe what he has just been told; fuck, they got Shepherd sacked exactly what they need someone. Not necessarily Shepherd, but just a coach. He was just trying to believe how stupid they are, it was unbelievable.

But he still has one question, one very important one regarding Simon himself.

"Why are you telling me this? So I can write about it? Because we both know that'll end up with me insulting the shit out of everyone," Simon said. It was an undeniable fact that he can and will talk about how ridiculous this situation is. Still, can't someone else do it?

MacTavish shook his head though. "That's not quite it…" he mumbled, head still on Simon's shoulder while he had found a way to intertwine their hands again, "you're qualified to be a coach, aren't you? Like, you have an UEFA Pro License?"

"To know what I'm talking about before talking trash about others. Have you been stalking me again?" Simon's first question was. A smirk appeared on MacTavish's face, but he shrugged as if he doesn't know what he's talking about.

"Simon Riley, twenty-seven years old, born in Manchester on the twelfth of April…" MacTavish began to name the first things you come across if you google Simon.

"That's just basic stuff," Simon chuckled. Not as if he would've minded if MacTavish actually did further research on him. In fact, he'd be amused because _wow_ , first time someone is interested in him.

"You're single, into both men and women and I'm going to assume you're a top, but that can be changed," MacTavish continued. The thing about change sounded odd to Simon; what the hell was that supposed to mean? He wasn't going to deny the rest though as it was true. He was also quite curious about how MacTavish even found out about that information; did an outsider get his Snapchat or so?

"Anyways, tell me about the coaching thing now;" Simon said, deciding it might be better to change the topic now before they completely forget about the purpose of this chat. He had some idea what MacTavish needed for him.

MacTavish closed his hand around Simon's before turning so his chin was resting on his shoulder. He seemed to be figuring out how to ask the question without receiving an instant no, it seemed. Looked like he has learned Simon is most likely to say no to almost everything.

Once he had it figured out, he opened his mouth to speak. "Well, so now we don't have a coach anymore and the assistant coach also left with Shepherd, we have no one. I've already talked with your intern about this—"

—when the fuck did MacTavish get Toad's number—

"—and he said he's willing to be assistant coach if you work as coach until the end of the tournament. Maybe if we find someone suitable, for a shorter time."

For that thinking he has done, Simon still needed to hold himself back from saying no. As much as he dislikes the idea, he doesn't dislike MacTavish. It still was nothing romantic, but he has formed a soft spot for the man.

A sigh escaped his lips when MacTavish pouted at him. Sure, he has seen many cute things, but that was too cute. "Fine, I'll think about it," he gave in, one hand on his forehead ad the other was in MacTavish's hand.

Said person smiled and shuffled a hit closer to Simon. While previously their sides weren't touching, they now were. Oddly enough, Simon couldn't care less.

"You're the best, Simon," MacTavish mumbled and Simon detected a hint of tiredness in his voice that he failed to notice earlier.

Simon stayed quiet for a few moments before speaking, but wished he spoke earlier as suddenly he heard quiet snoring.

"Ah, so you still run on England time…" Simon chuckled and couldn't resist kissing MacTavish's hair.

Making sure to not wake him up, Simon stood up slowly and pushed MacTavish's limbs onto the bed. Placing him so he'd sleep comfortably turned out to he more difficult to do quietly, but it was worth it when he was done.

Simon touched the undone mohawk on top of MacTavish's head, enjoying the feeling of silky hair in his fingers. Such a shame gel makes hair hard.

As last Simon pulled the blanket he was using over MacTavish's sleeping body. The man probably needed sleep after everything and even if that means doing stuff like this, Simon doesn't mind.


End file.
